


Companionable Solitude

by verrune



Series: Ignition [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 10:10:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3484343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verrune/pseuds/verrune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite seeming to be quite outgoing individuals, Asaala and Dorian share a deep love for books and a need to research, whether for work or amusement, and often find solace in Skyhold's quiet library—when they are not out wreaking havoc across Southern Thedas, of course. It takes a late night and a too-small chair for Asaala to understand that they are not just comrades—he is her first best friend in a long time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Companionable Solitude

Reports, administration and research drive Asaala Adaar to the library. Trial and error have deemed it the best place for her to work and read. It is quieter than the main hall, but not so silent that she can hear her own breaths over the scratching of her quill. Instead of sun glaring in her eyes through her room's stained glass all day, there is a warm glow here thanks to some carefully-placed torches—likely enchanted.

And, of course, the library contains one Dorian Pavus.

The mage is neck-deep in at least four projects at any given moment. One such project is an expansion of his work with Alexius—but rather than travelling through time, Dorian looks to speed or slow it in small areas. The magic sounds incredibly useful for combat, which means of course it is incredibly dangerous and shouldn’t be studied at all. But if there is one mage that Asaala trusts to approach the topic with humility, it is Dorian. After all the different sorts of extreme magic he’s seen, he is nothing if not cautious.

So that is how she finds her companion: huddled in his chair, nose-deep in a book, desk covered in broken quills and a stack of paper to rival her own. “Hey,” she says, and steps into the nook as his answering hand wave.

Asaala could find herself a stool as she usually might, but her hands are full and she is tired, so instead she instructs, “Scoot." He shifts in his chair, but not nearly enough to accommodate her. She clears her throat impatiently and taps her foot, making sure that the sound echoes through the tower.

Finally Dorian looks up, grinning tiredly as he sees her armload of work. “Come to join me in the deep, dark pit of research? What has Josephine given you this time?”

He stands to get a better look at the titles, and Asaala takes the opportunity to slide into the unoccupied seat. “Enough notes on Orlesian politics that you’re going to let me sit in your chair in case I fall asleep.”

He feigns shock. “Inquisitor, do you think to persuade me to give up my favourite chair?” His arms are crossed but his eyes are bright.

“You can sit on my lap,” she suggests dryly, depositing her own stack onto the desk and pulling out the most pressing bundle of reports. “If your skin won't chafe at the touch of the dread Qunari.”

Dorian snorts, and sits on the armrest instead. “Best not to risk it. I’m terribly delicate.”

She grins and pretends not to notice when, half an hour later, he slides down to seat himself on her knee instead of finding a stool.

—

A bell sounds, somewhere, and Asaala’s eyes must adjust to the darkness. How is she supposed to read in this light? The only source is the straining illumination from the window behind her.

Daylight, but no torches. Morning? That can’t be right. Since the Breach opened her sleeping hours have always been plagued by dreams that wake her after a few hours. She shouldn’t be calm, content and still half-asleep.

But here she is, stretching out a Maker-damned crick in her neck while trying to avoid impaling the chair on her horns and becoming more aware of the body sprawled atop her. Somehow her left arm has wound around Dorian’s waist to anchor him to her hip where he sits, head lolling against her shoulder. He looks younger in his sleep—more like the earnest young man whom she forgets that he is, somewhere deep down that has not been hardened by betrayal and loss.

There is something terribly intimate about the situation. Asaala doesn’t exactly shy away from physical contact, but she is still unused to it. Habits formed from living among stoic Tal-Vashoth or other, easily-intimidated races her entire life have kept her from offering comrades a hand on the shoulder or, Maker forbid, a hug. Even more so, she has learned not to expect them from others. She is unused to such prolonged contact with anybody—but somehow, in this moment, she is comfortable.

She can’t believe she is comfortable.

A long exhale draws her eyes to his face as he wakes. When his eyes struggle open they stare at each other in uncertain silence for quite a bit longer than necessary, and Asaala isn’t willing to speak first and risk spooking her friend, who she knows is even less inclined to physical affection. Hey, I don’t usually cuddle with people but you’re pretty comfy so it’s cool. Yep, that’ll go over well.

Finally Dorian rises from her lap and begins straightening his clothing. “Mother Giselle will have a field day with this. 'The Inquisitor uses research to lure the Tevinter into cuddling.' Or—rather, the other way around. I’m always the villain in such stories."

Finally the tense ball in her chest loosens, and Asaala laughs. “If anyone believes those rumours they obviously don’t know the two of us."

Dorian hums in response. She isn’t sure whether it’s affirmative or negative. She stands herself, and the two gather their various materials in silence, occasionally squinting at a paper to determine whose it is.

It is only when Asaala is walking away that she chances her offer. “Should I requisition a sofa in case this happens again?” She grins, speaks airily, but it masks the gnawing in her chest at the thought of pretending that this closeness between them does not exist.

Dorian considers, briefly, with a tilt of his head. “That’s probably a good idea,” he allows with a tentative smile, and to her it is a hug after a lifetime spent alone.

She leaves the library grinning.


End file.
